


Marry a man with calloused hands

by feyrelay



Series: Moe atu nga ringa raupa [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, But Also Artistic License Is A Thing, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Endgame (Movie), F/M, Hover Translations for Māori Words, I did so much research, Islands, Lucid Dreaming, M/M, Magic and Science, Marvel Bang 2020, Mind Manipulation, NOT a no Powers AU, New Zealand, Not A Soulmate AU but Kinda Looks Like It, Not A Time Travel AU either, References to Polynesian Religion & Lore, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:09:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27828049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feyrelay/pseuds/feyrelay
Summary: Art by Peachbabypie.Peter, a rebellious but socially isolated native son to Motutapu island in what is now New Zealand, finds himself lucky enough to be betrothed to the wisest man in the village, the oracle and master craftsman who has recently also been his only friend and his mentor. Despite the creeping sense of unease present on the paradise island and the way Peter struggles with being adopted, pale, anxious, and wanting of men twice his age, he is happy. He’s living the dream.A series of bad omens before his wedding day, such as tattoo not taking to his skin, rain for weeks on end, and the rumbling of the nearby volcano all speak to something ominous coming Peter’s way, but as long as he has Tony by his side, he feels prepared to handle it.He’s wrong on so many levels.(First part and bang entry for a series where all is not as it seems.)
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Series: Moe atu nga ringa raupa [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2036632
Comments: 21
Kudos: 25
Collections: Marvel Big Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, a big thank you to my bang partner, [peachbabypie](https://peachbabypie.tumblr.com/), for the beautiful artwork you should see below this note. She's an amazing artist and an even more amazing friend, and I'm lucky to have her in my life. Other thanks are also due to my beta, [ceealaina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceealaina/pseuds/ceealaina), and my main fandom squish and source of inspiration, tangodoodles, for all their help.
> 
> Background Pairings for this Work: Wanda/Vision, Steve/Bucky (could be read as platonic), past Tony/Rhodey (could be read as platonic but shouldn't), and Thor/Loki (alluded to only). Oh, and May/Pepper, but that's just in my head.
> 
> A note on cultural appropriation: the tags for this fic, while they contain spoilers, definitely do not tell the whole story. They don't tell the whole story of _this_ story, and this story in turn does not tell the whole story of the Māori people. For that, please do your own research and let the Māori community speak for itself, in its own words; their voices and their language were quite literally silenced by the laws of imperialists for far too long. Because I am a student of languages, that inspired me to create a work leaning on the language and legends of the Māori, but at no point do I ever pretend that Peter and Tony are anything but what they are... interlopers who have fortunately been temporarily welcomed on the island. 'Welcoming' and hospitality are of huge import in this culture.
> 
> **Hovering over with your mouse should provide an English translation for Māori words, the first time they are used and when not otherwise translated in-context, or you can find them in the endnotes on mobile.**
> 
> If you are a Māori person or someone who studies their culture and has constructive critique for what I've done here, I encourage you to comment, or reach out to me privately on Discord, found in my bio. If you do not have constructive criticism, but feel strongly that this fic constitutes an injustice against Māori culture, I encourage you to turn that feeling into substantive action rather than an unkind comment, perhaps by donating to [this](https://zeal.nz/donate) initiative for creative outreach to Māori youth, or another charity.

Peter is bathing in the highest pool along the village stream when it happens, when he meets the trickster for the first time.

He knows this must be the trickster, you see, because of what the man says and how it happens. Normally anyone who would dare interrupt the ritual bath of the chief’s nephew and heir would be struck down with a _tapu_ so heavy that it would be like wearing a cloth veil with large stones sewn along the edge. One would drown under the shame, presumably.

(Peter knows the feeling, knows how it feels to have the choking dark encroach so fast and steady that-)

And yet, there is a man with a handsome, dark curtain of hair and an angular face, having just melted back into mortal existence from his animal form, an eel. And he’s staring.

Peter remains calm, even though a feeling of anxiety is forming like a low, sticky cloud in his throat. “Who are you and why are you in my bath, eel? The full moon lowers herself back into the ocean, so too shall we bathe after our inhuman trial. Uh… separately, if you please.”

 _Please,_ Peter repeats fruitlessly in his mind. 

(Please, please, please, let me _breathe_ , come _on-_ )

“Don’t you recognize me, little favored one?” the bright-eyed man asks him as he sloshes forward. “Don’t you ever ask yourself why the moon madness ends at the exact moment that your kingfisher form has had its fill of spiders and,” he slinks closer to Peter, who can see now that this man is naked under the water as new dawn lights their skin, “eels which you’ve beaten bloody and blue against the rocks?”

Peter bristles immediately, drawing himself up as much as he can while still waist-deep in water. “What business is it of yours what I do while in my animal form? As if I have any more control over it than anyone else. What difference does it make that I eat the same fish as a bird that is served at the island table? Does it offend _you_?”

The man is even closer now. He touches Peter’s jaw briefly, a grave offense in its own right. His smile is wide and unsettling. “Immensely,” he purrs.

A shiver goes through the bathwater, and Peter breathes in harshly. A third person joins them at the far end of the pool.

“Leave him alone, Loki,” comes Tony’s authoritative voice. It’s a voice Peter has tried very diligently to get used to, the voice of his future husband. It is not so soothing as it could be, just now. 

_How does he know this man?_ Peter asks himself, and then he remembers he is the chief’s heir and this is his bath. His _private_ bath. 

Future husband or no, Tony shouldn’t really be here either. Peter decides he should ask his questions out loud. “How do you know this man, _tohunga_?”

Peter uses the honorific that marks Tony as a learned man and a master craftsman, despite their impending nuptials. It’s a reflex. Tony frequently tells him it’s too much of an honor for a simple mentor, that ‘sir’ would suffice, or even just ‘Tony’. He tells Peter that he isn’t special, just old, and that by virtue of being the oldest man on the island that does _not_ make him wise. 

For his part, Peter likes to tell his future husband just the opposite: clearly _something_ has led him to live this long, and there’s no need to be self-deprecating.

But Tony isn’t being self-deprecating now. He makes a show of shaking off the last of his transformation from his own animal form—an _electric_ eel, Peter’s mind supplies—and advances on the one who must be Loki, if Tony has said it thus.

Loki responds by taking Peter’s fragile bird-boned hips in his hands under the water, which makes Peter gasp. With fear, yes, but also a tickle of something he’s only occasionally explored, a kind of swooping excitement that reminds him of diving off cliffs into the few spots of rockless shallows that are safe enough, here on the island of Motutapu.

“Yes, explain to him, _wise man._ Explain to the child how we whose souls are almost the same, explain how we can be so different. Explain how like recognizes like… old, wise, _holy_ man.” He says it derisively. 

“I don’t have to explain shit,” Tony says carelessly, and the water of the ritual bath goes rigid with current, Tony pouring leftover lightning into it like a weapon. Peter is shocked too, of course, but it is a sort of bliss. His body is on fire with electricity, but it feels amazing, like something he’s been missing all his life. He could die like this.

He _does_ die like that, gasping wetly in his mentor’s arms, apologizing.

And Peter wakes on the beach, sticky and sandy, and remembers that the pregnant moon’s curse and the resulting transformation that plagues the people of his island isn’t for another two quarter-moons yet. His dream is early by fourteen days, at least.

Peter always has had the oddest dreams around the dark moon which is the halfway point between excursions in his animal form. Moreover, Peter takes to the moon madness more roughly than many others. It's not so much that Peter can't handle being forced to shift into the shape of an animal as it is that he feels, sometimes, even as he admires the kingfisher's moonglow feathers from afar, that it's the _wrong_ animal.

Regardless, Peter lifts himself from the sand and gets up for another day as the favored nephew so overwhelmingly protected (isolated, I- can someone _please-_ ) by their little island community that Peter dreams of dying and likes it.

And this is Peter’s life.

***

Like many other days, the likes of which Peter has seen so many times that they run together, today is a day of learning. Peter can hardly remember a time before taking up the rhythms of being Tony’s student, though of course he knows it must have been true. He doesn’t remember putting much stock into lessons before the death of his uncle, for instance; like everything else in Peter’s life, there is a Before Ben version, and an After Ben version.

Before Ben, Peter had been a little bit spoiled, the consequence of coming into Ben and May’s little family later than perhaps May would have liked. His uncle had been a visionary, or so Peter has heard in the village, for marrying a woman who could not have children when he had the lineage of a rangatira to uphold.

The best part is, to hear May tell it, he had also been the kind of man to never give up trying, not even after he and May had found Peter. He can laugh about the implication of that now that he is of age to be married soon, and the memory of May joking about it is a fond, if distant, one.

Ben, in courting Peter’s Aunt May, had successfully argued that Motutapu’s great pride was its tradition of forming new families just as the volcano forms new islands from under the burning, bubbling sea. Peter’s people are very familiar with this phenomenon since the island in the direction of the sun’s sleeping feet—which they have always called Rangitoto—is one such an island. The name and the fact that it is to the southeast makes Peter think of a tired red sun laying down with bleeding feet from his journey. 

Ben told Peter once that to abdicate one’s responsibility toward other people or toward the land and sky and sea themselves would be both a great personal shame and a _tapu_ against the entire _iwi._ Taking Peter in, he’d explained, was part of upholding more than just lineage but also part of upholding the tradition of Motutapu. The reputation of the island—for taking in orphans and raising them well as the last act of vengeance against whatever tore down their parents—still to this day stretches far and wide amongst the other islands. 

Sometimes, even, the other islands purposefully send their own orphaned children to live on the sacred island. Motutapu’s mission in this makes a fine dent in the otherwise booming inter-island slave trade, and for that Peter is proud.

The other thing that Motutapu is famous for is legends.

This is the reason Peter so looks forward to his lessons with Tony every day. No one knows more myths than Tony, though Peter thinks some of them sound made up… and not ‘made up’ in the way that all stories are, but more like Tony himself makes them up as an explanation for how he is able to invent so many wonderful things. It is the one thing that holds Peter back from his otherwise boundless excitement at the fast-approaching prospect of being married.

Then again, perhaps when they’re married, Tony will finally teach him some real magic, instead of claiming to have come up with his newest craft in a prophetic dream.

There must be some… _order_ to it, some way of making the results repeatable. There _has_ to be. He doesn’t accept Tony’s usual argument that magic is just the kind of thing that has no order. Magic is what curses the island to shift into their animal forms on full moons, isn’t it? And yet that happens with steady regularity, every twenty-eight nights. And Peter always changes into the same thing, as does everyone else.

There must be a reason why.

 _And,_ Peter thinks, as much as he loves stories in general and Tony’s stories in particular, _it must be a reason other than because it pacifies the whims of capricious gods._

***

" _Tohunga,_ can you tell me if it is a normal part of getting older, that I forget so many things?” Peter asks Tony through the fabric, the next time they are together.

Tony snorts. “Kid. I know what you mean, _believe me,_ but in the context of forgetting things let’s just say that you are nowhere _near_ old enough to be worried about that. Okay? Come talk to me when you’re nearing fifty.”

“Okay,” Peter says doubtfully. He squirms and wishes, not for the first time, that he could see his mentor’s face. Just once, before the wedding.

Nevermind that Peter had had a thousand opportunities to do so, before Ben died. He must have met Tony on the island many times, he figures; their _kāinga_ is not so very big that Peter would have missed him amongst the other islanders. The truth is that before Ben died, though, Peter was a carefree child. Smart, yes. Questioning, yes. Creative and rebellious, _yes._

But he had also been content to stay irresponsible and to ignore Ben’s lessons about the topography and crop rotation of Motutapu. He had been even _more_ content to ignore his lessons about politics and to avoid the introductions that Ben had tried to make for him. What was the use of learning how to rule their island anyway, if the long-term plan had always been to leave it and settle elsewhere, before the volcano at Rangitoto had enough and the Volcano God claimed their souls for the put-upon, red-haired Mistress of the Underworld whose tresses fill the bloody sky the morning before a storm.

Surely, in that case, no one would want _Peter_ for that.

And then Ben had died, two-almost-three years ago, and May had gone into an unusually extended _tangi_ , attended only by trusted women of the village who know how to treat the broken heart that saw May struggle to get up from her bed each day. Those trusted ladies, the healers, told Peter in no uncertain terms that she needs a respite from any and all stress but also could not be left alone lest she do herself harm. So now he stays away so that the women can work. 

Mostly, Peter’s afraid that his grief would rise up and swallow hers like a wave, if he saw her and if he _shamed_ her by seeing her in her current struggle.

(He’s afraid he’d drown her too.)

So Peter stays in his solitary, large _whare_ , while other families have similar-sized dwellings or smaller for _multiple_ generations. He stays in his big, beautiful, finely-decorated and airily empty house and tries not to be jealous of those whose windows and interior walls are blocked in by flat, unadorned reed panels, instead of his fine _tukutuku_ which tell the story of the chief bloodline’s ancestors. Who is he to be jealous, he who is so privileged? Who is he to be lonely?

Tony coughs on the other side of the flaxen panel that separates what Peter calls his ‘learning room’ from the little outside porch from which Tony speaks to him daily. This is their courtship, as mandated by the laws of their entire _iwi,_ since Tony is not permitted to enter Peter’s house just as Peter is not permitted to leave except to cook for himself, clean his clothes, or otherwise relieve or wash himself… other than, of course, as a kingfisher on the full moon.

“I’m just tired,” Peter tells him, aware that he’s been silent too long while contemplating their circumstances. “I had an awful dream last night.”

There’s a short silence which Peter perceives as kind. Tony, he thinks, also must know grief if he is the oldest man in the village. They have never spoken of it.

“Sleeping on the beach will do that to you,” Tony mutters.

Peter smiles. Someone’s been watching him after all. “Well yes, you’d know that well, wouldn’t you, sir?” is all he says, though. He prefers to keep things playful, and anyway… tales of Tony’s youthful fondness for _wai kaha_ , even in its strongest forms, are legendary. Such tales often end in Tony falling asleep on the beach, stinking of coconut and fermentation.

He wonders suddenly who is telling these stories, if they are from so long ago when Tony was young. Perhaps it is Tony himself? It _must_ be.

Peter hums. “But teacher, why would you want people to know about-”

“You’re too smart for your own good, but you lack experience. Here is today’s lesson: if you want the best chance at not repeating yesterday’s mistakes, tell someone today who will look out for you tomorrow. A little shame now, is worth a relapse later.”

Peter sobers. “No one is looking out for me. No one speaks to me, or even looks at me when I go out to do my chores. They will not, until we are wed and I am the chief and I receive the blessing that lifts the tapu.”

“I’m the one looking out for you, what do you mean ‘no one’? You’ve been too long in your fancy _whare_ if I’m ‘no one’,” Tony jokes, clearly trying to lift his spirits. He plays at being deeply offended. “I’ll have you know that such rudeness doesn’t really hasten my desire to become your groom.”

Peter pretends to think, watching Tony’s shadow on the flax linen. This is his favorite time of day, when the sun is out. “I’m not sure. Can one ‘hasten’ that which does not exist in the first place?” he asks.

Five fingertips make their tender indentations in the cloth and Peter thrills. “Don’t say that. You’re my best student. Don’t act like I hate you just because I’m not thrilled to be forcibly betrothed to someone a generation-and-a-half younger than me. It just makes me feel old and washed-up is all, but it’s nothing to do with you and I won’t have you thinking that. Self-deprecation isn’t a good look, Peter.”

 _Aha. Got him._ Peter matches up their hands through the cloth and then presses to touch, the only kind of other-human-touch he’s had for almost three years. “You’re right, sir. Being down on oneself does no one any good,” he replies slyly, still burning at the fingertips as if Tony is the Fire Goddess herself, who has five fingers of red flame per hand always at her disposal.

There’s a beat. “You little _shit,_ you tricked me. You tricked _me._ I’m actually impressed.”

“You did say I was your best student.”

“You’re my only student.”

Peter hums again and presses their fingers together harder.

***

The next day, he files past villagers on his way to the ocean. If anyone asks, he’ll tell them he needs a fresh fish bone for a needle to mend his cloak. Nevermind that the fine cloth befitting a chief’s nephew is always as pristine as it ought to be.

Peter just needs to breathe, and look out at the open water dotted with other islands in the distant mist. Fuck that it’s forbidden, that no one even canoes out to fish anymore, that they all fear the Volcano God such that only Peter is brave enough to so much as _look_ at the rapidly-forming island of Rangitoto, nearby.

However, Peter does not get to see Rangitoto today, because his feet carry him inexplicably to the source of the sweet stream that runs through the village. He is high in the hills, as far away from the beach as he’s ever been, and can’t say why. He frowns down at his own feet for carrying him here in error.

It must be said, though, that the warmth of the sun which is so frequently blocked out in the cool dark of the forest, is pleasant here. Peter wiggles his toes and takes a few steps, enjoying the flat slap of the soles of his feet on warm rock.

Peter mutters to himself, “Well, if I’m going to sunbathe, it might as well be worth it…”

He strips down to the last of his clothes, which cover places that (in his conscious memory at least) have only ever been touched by him and the occasionally intrepid fish or eel. Peter hesitates. _No, best to leave this on,_ he thinks. Not so much because he wants to, really, but because if someone does happen upon him, it will allow them to save face and preserve their own mana.

He sighs and stretches out on the rock, closing his eyes against the uninterrupted sun. Peter absolutely cannot fall asleep. He can’t. He fell asleep on the beach, fishing with hunger for an excuse for his evening outing, once already this week. If he’s caught lazing outside again so soon they may start having someone observe his comings and goings.

(Though how anyone could observe him who can’t look him in the eye is a mystery to Peter.) 

Idly, Peter prays to stay awake. He thanks the Quick Stream God, who keeps water fresh with his swiftness. He thanks the Red Sun as well, for warming this rock by the water. Silently, Peter’s lips move, and he promises that he will set aside an offering from his meal, later. He will be sure to fish from the ocean and not the stream for his food, he promises, so that the Stream God’s protectorates are not disturbed. This will anger the Ocean God, but clearly the Ocean God is already angry with Peter.

Truth be told, Peter’s angry right back at him. Ben should have died in a battle or protecting others. He should not be lost to the god of all things deep and mysterious below the surface, he should not be lost to the god of mischievous sideways crabs and giant squid too big to even see in one blink. His body should not have been swept out to Tangaroa’s cold depths where not even color goes, to hear Tony tell tales of pale, blind fish of the deep.

So yeah, the Ocean God can bite him. Peter would rather stick to the sun and the stream. His feet chose well.

And speaking of Tony, a voice calls out. “Peter? No, don’t get up, it isn’t allowed. I’ll stay where I am and you stay there.”

It takes everything Peter has to stay rooted. He dares to sit up and the sun glints off the water and fills up his vision painfully. He knows his eyes have gone wide. His husband is here! Here!

“What are you doing? Were you looking for me?” _Were you looking_ at _me, in my barest of clothes?_

“Ah, no, I. This is just a place where I am- where I come, I mean. What brought _you_ here?”

Peter doesn’t rightfully know the answer to that. “I- I just wanted to get warm. I was praying.”

“Oh, I’ll bet you were.” The reeds rustle in one particular place, which only serves to highlight for Peter just how still everything else is, here. There is no wind, no shimmering heat. There is no tree, no weed, no insect or bird. There is only Peter, who both is and is not a _kōtare,_ a kingfisher. There is the sun and the stone and the stream. And there is Tony. 

It occurs to Peter that this might be the only comfortable place on the entire island that a bird and fish might meet, which the Ocean God cannot see.

“Are you really a fish?” Peter has the gall to ask, sun-dazed.

“I’m _sorry_?”

Tony sounds incredulous, and even though he’s further away than he is when he talks from Peter’s porch, it feels somehow closer with nothing in-between them. “I said, are you really a fish? I had a dream, about the moon. I dreamed your form was an electric eel, whatever that is. It was like a regular eel, but with lightning in it. I’ve never even heard of such a thing, and yet I dreamt it. I wondered if it was true.”

“I am not a fish,” Tony answers him cryptically. “But your dream was truth. There are such things, far away. I dream about them too, when I remember not to drink.”

Peter frowns. “What do you mean? You stopped drinking the coconut _wai kaha_ years ago, you said.”

“Perhaps I lied. But I meant the water, the regular _wai_. The water makes us forget things.”

“You never lie,” Peter says confidently, though he shivers since the stone under him has grown cold as the sun has gone behind several large clouds. He reaches for his clothes. “The water does what now?”

“I’m tired, kid. One day I’ll tell you stories of places too far and too dry for any _waka_ , or any poisoned sweetwater for that matter, to reach. But not today.”

Peter scrambles up. He just wants a glimpse. They could touch hands, maybe, or hug. That’s all. “Will you come to the porch to teach me?”

The reeds do not rustle; they are still. “If it doesn’t rain, I will. But try to remember what I said.”

“Alright,” Peter breathes. He closes his eyes to once again thank the Red Sun and the Quick Stream for the bounty of this wonderful place and when he opens them again, he knows Tony has gone so they won’t get in trouble. “Thank you,” he exhales, once more.

***

It rains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> tapu - sacred prohibition; taboo  
> tohunga - wise man; priest, expert  
> rangatira - chief  
> iwi - larger genealogical tribe  
> kāinga - village  
> tangi - mourning period  
> whare - house  
> tukutuku - ornamental lattice-work  
> wai kaha - good water; alcohol  
> mana - personal spiritual energy; honor  
> waka - canoe


	2. Chapter 2

It rains every day until the day before Peter’s birthday at the end of summer. It rains for so long that the women who whisper on the other side of the _kāuta_ where Peter cooks his food at a separate, solitary firepit are starting to spin a myth about the incessant rains and the death of the Red Sun.

“He isn’t dead,” Peter finally snaps. It is far too close to the full moon for this sort of irritation. They are all on edge. “He’s just… behind the clouds.”

The women hush but then rally. Technically, he’s not supposed to be talking to them but no one is going to call Peter on it with that warning note in his voice.

Deciding he’s won something, Peter takes his crispy bits of goat meat and sweet potato and goes up into the hills. It looks like it’s going to rain again today, but it hasn’t started yet and Peter feels the spot by the river calling his name.

 _Try and stop me,_ Peter thinks viciously. _I dare you._

The food is filling, though not as fancy as it used to be before the tsunami that took Ben and Ben’s entire _waka_ —which had been filled with his high-caste entourage—including the island’s best cooks and hairdressers. It’s funny, though, how Peter feels more at home with the quick bites he fashions for himself, now. Perhaps he just wasn’t built for luxury.

Regardless, Peter lays himself out on the flat rock, which is a bracing cool from the nearby riverhead, and thinks. He fancies himself rather smart, especially since he’s had the privilege to be taught by Tony, who is a wise man.

 _Though not lately,_ Peter’s inner voice grumbles. Still, they will be married soon and then no question will be forbidden between them. Tony will be able to tell him any story Peter asks for, and he will be able to show him how to craft any item or tool that Peter can think of. It is this last, perhaps, that Peter is most excited for; being taught with a _muka_ screen between them has not lent itself to learning that for which Tony has earned the title of _tohunga in_ the first place: craftsmanship.

Peter misses his teacher, but Tony never comes when the sun is not out. For this reason alone does Peter feel entitled to laze about in the clearing; without Tony, there is nothing to rush home to. No matter, Peter is almost a man, of age to be married. He can weather a little disappointment and indeed, is no stranger to it. For instance, he’d been looking forward to getting his _moko_ applied permanently to his skin as a rite of passage. The artist, a great man from a nearby, allied island, had come especially to do this for Peter. It had been a day of great celebration, right up until the moment that the artist had leant over Peter’s face—which he’d steadfastly forced stone-still in preparation for pain—and begun.

And nothing had happened.

They’d tried again, but to hear the artist tell it Peter’s skin swallowed up the ink and the wound like a raindrop into a pond… a moment would pass and then it would be as if nothing had ever been there.

Peter had sat there, horrified, eyes flicking around at the crowd of people who had assembled to see the _tohunga tā moko_ do his work. The whispers had begun near-immediately and Peter had tried to block them out, breath coming too fast as his eyes fell shut.

He’d always healed fast, since he was small. This was known in the village. It would be fine, they just had to try harder to hurt him. Peter could take it.

“Call for the oracle, Stark. He will know why the pale child does not take ink,” the artist had bid a bystanding woman. “This is his island too, yes?”

Peter had tried to breathe shallowly, slowly. He’d calmed, just a little. The _tohunga ahurewa_ would know what to do. He was a problem-solver… though it begged the question why Stark, who was known for inventing tools before the need for them even arose, would not have foreseen Peter’s predicament.

In the end, the oracle had not appeared and Peter had not been tattooed, to his great shame, and the whispers had continued.

“It’s because he lacks _whakapapa_ ,” one granny had said, too loudly. Her granddaughter had shushed her insistently, only to get a whap on the shoulder with the heavily-embroidered corner of her father’s cloak for disrespecting her elders. “An orphan like that, pale-skinned, no known lineage?”

“We cannot even call it a failed _moko,_ then. A failed _kirituhi ,_ maybe.”

And that had stung, worse than anything Peter had tried to have done to his skin. From then on, he’d tanned like never before, inviting the kiss of the Red Sun so he would fit in more with the people of his island. He’d worked hard to be less rebellious, though never hard enough. He’d respected every tradition of his people, even the _tapu of_ grief on his own person that chafed so harshly with its prescribed isolation.

And now, what did he have to show for it? An absent mentor, and a fortnight of rain before his wedding day.

Sure, Peter is no stranger to disappointment. But he hadn’t meant to be married to it, either.

With the distant chant of Tāwhiri, the Storm God’s, thunder marching toward Motutapu, Peter goes home. In deference to his mood, however, he takes the long way, figuring it for a sort of compromise with himself. He’s not expecting ‘the long way’ to be washed out with the rain. Standing at the top of the hill, a mudslide before him and sticky humidity cuddling uncomfortably close to his skin, Peter has regrets.

Then he slips and keeps slipping. Peter stiffens and crosses his legs at the ankle to make himself more… more something, something that has to do with the way the air just above the ground whistles up his shin bones and the rest of the length of his body, like he’s a spear cutting through the air and the mud. The word slips away from his mind as quickly as he falls down the hill, and Peter focuses on protecting his head.

There’s a large puddle at the bottom and then black.

***

The man who wipes his face clean and tends to the tender gash near his hairline is very handsome, in Peter’s opinion. It had been hard, being the chief’s kid and pale and talkative and jumpy and an orphan… it had been hard to add ‘wanting-of-men’ to that list of oddities, but it’s for a face like this that Peter had soldiered through.

God damn.

Also, Peter knows this man, or at least he thinks he does. It’s possible he has a… fuck, he can’t think of this word either. A beating on his head. A shock, a bruise. “Whētuki,” Peter manages, reaching for the bit of damp cloth to clean his own blood. He doesn’t want anyone in trouble for touching him.

“Mmhmm,” the man with his weird beard hums. “Yup, you took a whētuki to the old braincase, that’s right. Look at you, it’s coming back already. You’ll be fine, kid.” His eyes are bright every time they catch on Peter, but that’s not why he...

The voice. “Tony?”

“And smart as a whip as always.”

Peter’s not sure what a whip is. “You’re. You’re the oracle… Stark. I’ve seen you before. Why didn’t you tell me it was you? All this time I’ve been trying to picture you, my teacher, and now it turns out you’re someone else. How could we be so unlucky?”

He gets a wry smile out of the older man for his trouble. “You have no idea.” But Tony doesn’t elaborate on that, and he answers Peter’s other question instead. “Oracle this, tohunga that, it all makes me a bit uncomfortable to be honest. Bit of a power imbalance, you know? Can’t escape celebrity even _here._ Also, I wasn’t sure if you’d fight me on the concept of last names.”

Peter covers his eyes with both hands, blocking out the light and the sound. He’s never known his teacher to talk such nonsense, and not even the throbbing in Peter’s temples—or the thrill of putting a face to the most treasured name amongst Peter’s constellation of connections—can make him forget his confusion.

He latches onto what he knows. This man will be his husband tomorrow. “It’s bad luck to…”

Tony peers at him, something dark in his gaze that gnaws at Peter’s memory. “To what, Peter? What am I not supposed to do, here?” He pauses. "Besides everything?"

 _It’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding._ That’s what Peter was thinking. But he doesn’t know where that even came from; he’s never heard it before. “I- you can't, I'm-”

“Yeah, I know, it’s forbidden. I get that. But honestly, if anyone should be the one confined to the big, luxurious house in his grief, it oughta be me. It's kind of my thing. Not sure where that got lost in translation.”

Peter takes his hands away from his face. For the first time he notices that the place is outfitted very differently than what Peter is used to. The lack of wood-fired lighting is especially striking. Everything is instead lit with fat, pale pillars of… something. And they're all topped with open flame that clings to each pillar like a proud fern does to a rocky outcropping.

The flames gutter in the wind that cuts through Tony's airy house. "They're candles," Tony supplies, watching Peter again.

“I know what they are!” Peter snaps. Tony raises an eyebrow. “Stop,” Peter finally says. “You’re being very confusing. My head hurts.”

“It’s only gonna get worse before it gets better.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Peter asks petulantly. His head really _does_ hurt, and to be honest, he’s tired of Tony treating him like there’s some great secret that only Tony knows.

“Relax. I’m the so-called oracle in this situation, so just trust me.”

And that? Peter can do. Hurt as he is, confused as he is, Tony’s word is the only word Peter has had for months. It’s easy to trust it. They speak the same language, and they are both different from the rest of the people on the island. They are both interlopers, spares. It’s another reason, Peter believes, that their marriage has been arranged. “Okay,” he says.

At this, Tony smiles again. It’s bigger and more genuine this time, and Peter feels as though he’s finally done something right. “Okay. Attaboy.”

***

Peter dresses for his wedding alone, which is a bigger ordeal than it has any right to be. For one thing, the _muka_ piece around his midsection is tighter than he thought it’d be; the fibers perhaps have reacted to the damp weather they’ve been having. Peter smooths a hand down the weave of the thing, fingers tripping more carefully over the diagonals of delicately placed feathers than over the rest of it. A part of him wonders if he’ll ever wear anything this beautiful ever again.

Another part of him wonders why it has been _tapu_ for anyone to cook his meals, but it’s apparently fine that three weavers and four craftswomen skilled with feathers have been making his waist-piece, cloak, and other wedding clothes for two weeks. (But that’s apparently not up to him.)

What _is_ up to Peter, however, are the other details of what he’ll wear. Peter finds some solace in adding feathers to represent the people he’s lost, the people who he wishes could be there with him today. It’s not that he’s _scared_. He’s just… okay, scared. He’s scared.

 _There’s nothing to be afraid of,_ Peter tells himself. This is his responsibility, to marry well. He has been privileged, and this is his payment for it. Not to mention, being lucky enough to be wed to the person who Peter gladly argues and plays and jokes with, on a daily basis? It’s not really a hardship.

Knowing that, however, doesn’t make it any easier to walk out into the sunlight on the day of his wedding. For the first time in a very long time, both people and petals line his way. Peter’s neighbors and distant cousins no longer avert their eyes as he passes. Hands reach out and touch his clothes or pass him flowers. Even, once or twice, fingers make contact with Peter’s skin as he makes his way to the _wharenui ,_ and Peter’s breath is stolen away at how sensitive and raw he feels, even just on his arm. 

The hair there stands up and doesn’t lay back down all through the wedding ceremony.

He tries, Peter really does, to ground himself. He has been preparing for this for quite some time, and Tony himself has taken great care in explaining what he can of the ceremony. Of course, he had done so with great hesitance and no small amount of reluctance, but Peter had been adamant, and so Tony had haltingly told the stories of how the wedding ceremony evolved over time amongst the _tangata whenua._

(Sometimes, even, Tony sounded quite nervous, as though he didn’t know what to expect either, and that put Peter strangely at ease. They could do this together.)

In the here and now, Peter looks out across the sea of heads; the whole village is out for this, and May must be among them, now that their grief period approaches its end.

But he can find her nowhere. Peter fingers an orange feather whose point is threaded through a hole in his left earlobe… left for the mother’s line. He feels uneasy. _May would never miss this,_ he thinks.

Tony, too, looks a bit green around the gills. Peter can’t say it’s unexpected; his teacher has made it more than clear that he considers Peter an unlikely match for himself. But it stings a bit, too. Finally, the day has come when Peter’s _tapu_ is lifted. He is part of the whole again, and he and Tony are meant to elevate each other now out of their individual strangenesses to become part of the wider community. It’s hard to feel that when Tony looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.

Part of the ceremony requires participation, too. 

The women call out and beckon the crowd in general—and Peter and Tony, specifically—into the wharenui. The welcoming noise, joyous and somehow harmonious despite the myriad of sounds the whole town is making, rises into the carved rafters. This place is grander even than Peter’s home, and rightly so; it belongs to everyone.

He can feel the _atua_ , who have also been welcomed in. Peter fights the urge to turn around, to calm his jangling senses by fruitlessly searching for those spirits which are invisible all around him. (He hopes Ben, and perhaps even his parents, are there… in addition to the tiny gods of every beating soul of the island which whisper and pulse from every vine and rock and fish and bird.)

The people fall quiet as soon as wreaths of flowers ring themselves around his and Tony’s necks.

The fruits of the earth, Papa’s fertility, and the sounds carried in air, Rangi’s welcome, have been bestowed upon them. Now they walk through fire and water.

The wharenui, the most sacred place on the island, is not sacred because it was built here. It was built here because the place is special; a small hot spring interrupts the room, and steam rises from it.

Normally, this is the moment where a _tohunga_ such as Tony would be called upon to speak and tell the tale of the two ancestral lovers, Hinemoa and Tutanekai. However, because this is Tony’s own wedding, Peter supposes he can do what he wants.

What Tony wants, apparently, is to say, “Let’s get it over with.”

(He takes Peter’s hand, though, and that’s what’s important.)

The first step into the steaming spring is a further step down than what Peter anticipated. There is hot water up to his knee, and it _burns_. He sucks in air through his teeth. “Ah-”

“It’s okay, you got it, kid,” Tony mutters. He looks like he feels the depth of the heated water too, though; his face is getting redder and the steam is making strands of Tony’s hair, dark but shot through with some grey, fluff up.

Peter goes to reply but Tony’s words break the spell of silence, and encouragement pours in from every corner like a rising tide.

“Brave the water, such a short crossing!” says one man.

“The lovers before you have swum a whole lake, freezing! You cross only a heated spring!” calls another.

“Strange child of the chief, you have crossed the horizon from an island not yet known to come here and become yourself,” an elderly woman says pointedly, catching Peter’s eye. He turns toward her despite himself. “Is it so much more to ask, this, to make you _his_?” she asks, nodding at Tony over Peter's shoulder.

He turns back around, and the look in Tony’s eyes is strangely intense. He has already crossed to the other side of the spring. “She’s right, you know. I don’t know how exactly you dreamed this up, but after three years, what’s a little extreme footbath?”

_Three years…_

Peter takes a step forward, ignoring the way this dials up the stinging of the water. Their way is not about pain, he knows, but it is about strength. There is joy, too, in this trial: Tony is waiting for him, unperturbed by what he must go through to marry someone of Peter’s rank.

(If Tony had married any lower, they’d have spent a night of passionate lovemaking and called it good enough; the only ceremony would have been between them.)

Tony doesn’t even really _want_ to marry him, and yet he does what he must. _This,_ Peter thinks, _is strength._ He takes another step forward, then another.

He still hasn’t seen May, which tickles at his mind as something just _wrong,_ something off, but Peter remembers something she said to him once. _Moe atu nga ringa raupa… marry a man with calloused hands._

Calloused hands, Peter imagines Tony _has._ As well as burnt feet.

He takes the last step towards the man who has been his teacher and Tony moves neatly back as well, stepping up onto the flat stone that makes a ledge above the water. Peter grabs for his hand and finds himself caught and lifted instantly.

 _We made it,_ Peter tells himself.

And he feels the proud atua of many lovers gone before him settle at his back, like a sacred cloak.

***

There is food. Bless the Red Sun God and everything his fingers touch, because _there is food._

Peter is ravenous. There are activities to get through yet, but for now, it bears repeating, there's food. And so much of it! Roast goat, sweet potato, smoked eel, flaxseed flatbread, coconut wai kaha brought by traders to the north, and so on… all of it graces the outdoor eating circle.

The thought of it all is almost enough to make Peter forget what lies between him and freedom from _tapu_. The vows and the dance, which are the same thing, come next… Peter can’t help but be nervous.

“Are you ready, Pākehā?” calls Hatu, a warrior man of some renown for his skill in _haka._ “You have learned our history from the oracle, and been quarantined for our safety. Now, show your willingness and your promises for the future in this dance, and you can be part of our family forever. You both can.”

Peter steps into the circle that has been prepared. It is the clearest, most even ground inside the _marae_. This is where the dance will take place.

“Tell the story you want to tell. Tell us all why this should be your home, with your new husband, and why he can trust you at his side,” Hatu tells him. He punctuates his command with the slap of a foot on the earth and a sharp, vocalized exhale.

Peter copies him, and feels the shiver of the earth up his shin bone. He catches Tony’s eyes. He’s practiced the words for months and months, and Hatu would not lead him astray on the motions.

“E!” Peter says, calling attention. “E karanga ana!” _I am calling,_ he thinks. Hatu stays silent, unwilling to speak for Peter, but he moves fluidly to one knee and holds his hand briefly up to his ear before slapping it down onto his own broad thigh. _Listen!_ the motion says.

It is exactly what Peter wanted to say. _If Tony would just_ **_listen_** _to me-_

Peter crouches too, and copies the motion. It reminds him of… something he can’t name, of _height._ He knows in every fiber of his being, he has felt this before, this crouching feeling that comes not from a place of surrender, but a place of fight. He is not subordinate, not on his knees… he is strong, ready to fly like a kingfisher or something else instinctual. He is ready to _jump_ ; this is _power._

“Let the _haka_ take your body over, and you will feel with a pure heart untethered to the ground,” Hatu advises him quietly.

“Kua… hikoi,” Peter exhales. _I have walked._ “Kua hikoi atu a ki a koe.” _I have walked away from me towards you._ Peter rises slowly, keeping his gaze steady on Tony, who watches transfixed. Peter extends a leg outward, feeling the muscle stretch, before using it to whip himself in a circle, throwing his body weight to gain enough momentum to create a smooth spin on his heel. This spin ends on a little jump that causes his landing foot to slap the ground as he exhales again. The other leg remains extended, a show of strength and control. Peter snaps his gaze back to Tony in an instant, back to his starting stance.

“E ōrite ana matou ināianei!” _We are the same now._

Hatu echoes him now. The ‘we’ is also the village, not just Peter and Tony. “E ōrite ana matou ināianei!” he repeats, throwing his hands up in a signal that the crowd may also speak during this part of Peter’s vows.

“E ōrite ana matou ināianei!” the cheer goes up, instantly. Several people clap their hands to their own thighs, copying Hatu’s ‘listen!’ motion from earlier.

With the extended leg—his right—Peter steps carefully back, bending his knees until his body lunges ever so slightly towards the ground. This stance shows he is offering something. “Ka whakahekea e ahau oku toto ki a koe…”

 _I offer you my blood,_ Peter promises mentally, though that doesn’t quite cover the sentiment. There is more there; _whakahekea_ doesn’t just mean offer, it also means bequeath in inheritance… Peter means to say he offers Tony point of pride in his family. And _whakahekea_ can also mean ‘spill, shed, descend’.

He would do that too, if it came to it. Peter lifts a hand to show how much, pushing his wrist forward as if offering Tony his very veins. Peter curls his middle finger and the finger next to it in, leaving his first finger and smallest finger extended, because it feels right. _I offer you gifts both big and small,_ the gesture says to him.

And Tony’s smile dawns so, so bright. He steps forward and curls his hand around Peter’s. 

Peter, truthfully, doesn’t know what to expect here. Tony surely has practiced his own vows, but he so rarely speaks the village tongue, preferring instead to speak the language of the strange, faraway island of his birth, which Peter also understands. It will be interesting to hear what Tony will promise him, now. And how.

“I do not need blood, I only want your mornings. You waking up is enough for me, kid.”

“Ko nga ata anake taku e hiahia ai…” someone translates in the hush, and the words make the rounds until the many whispers start to harmonize. Several women sigh at the romance on display.

“Deal,” Peter says quietly. Finally, he drops his gaze, suddenly unable to look Tony in the eye.

Tony kisses his knuckles.

***

After that, the spell is broken.

Peter tries not to jump too much when the rest of the _haka_ is over and the more informal group dancing is required of them, and Tony’s fingers suddenly smooth haphazardly around Peter’s waist and down his back, following the feather inlay perhaps subconsciously. A village woman, one of the craftswomen who made his clothes and who Peter believes is named Ahorangi, gives him a knowing look. Like most things in their village, a decoration has its purpose; Tony’s fingers don’t leave the soft diagonals of the feather inlay for their entire dance.

“Thanks,” Peter mutters, overwhelmed. Tony lets go of him, but doesn’t go far.

“You’re welcome.”

The dancing and ceremony ends, and Tony is all that stands between Peter and a crowd of people that Peter hasn’t spoken to for three years. Fortunately, the feast proves far more interesting than Peter. He hangs back and most of the crowd moves that way. Tony stands still beside him.

Ahorangi approaches. “Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life, _Pākehā._ How’s that corset holding up?” she asks with a little wink.

Tony flutters his fingertips at her before Peter can speak. “Shoo. He probably doesn’t know that word. Although, I guess if _you_ know that word, then he does. Whatever. Beat it.”

Peter frowns. “Don’t be rude to our guest. This is the woman who helped make my outfit. Show some respect.”

It’s not the way he wanted to start his marriage, by nagging. Tony heaves a sigh at him.

“Don’t _project._ You’re the one who doesn’t really want to be here,” Tony replies, a bit of a smile playing around his mouth. “For all that you’ve designed this with all the world’s most Freudian set-dressing, I don’t think the _wedding_ part is what you’re really interested in, kid. And you’re running the show here, so, uh. Skip to the wedding night if you want to. I’ll be in my bunk.”

 _What?_ “There’s roast goat. And all these people. I-”

Tony’s never propositioned Peter before, not in all the time since their betrothal was decided upon. And he could have. Peter knows that Tony knows he could have.

The next words out of Peter’s mouth come out slow and tall and gangly from his mouth, which he opens wider than normal to feel for what he wants to say. “We… we can’t skip out on the ceremony, _tohunga._ Tradition…”

Only people who are really in love, who can’t wait any longer, ever leave their own weddings. He knows that’s not them. Peter’s never heard of it happening with an arranged marriage. 

He also has a sudden frightening thought that, if Tony leaves, the island council that has been ruling in Peter’s stead for the past three years might deem the wedding ceremony insufficient to lift his _tapu._

Peter tucks a wayward wave of hair back behind the feathers by his ear. He can’t look at Tony’s face, so he looks at his chest instead, at the tangle of scarring there almost hidden by Tony’s large, greenstone necklace and the floral wreath that has been wrapped about the other man’s shoulders. “Tradition is important,” he finishes. “Especially for us. If we don’t belong by observing tradition,” Peter explains, reaching out to touch a bit of Tony’s skin just at the edge of where the wedding garland meets the string from which Tony’s pendant hangs, “then we don’t belong at all.”

The flow of the crowd around them towards the area marked out for eating and celebration makes it clearer than ever: he and Tony are the only pale-skinned people on the island, and the only two untattooed except for the very small children. They stand out like two pieces of driftwood interrupting an otherwise natural stream.

Tony looks at him so strangely, though there’s tenderness there too in his demeanor and enough of it to make Peter brave. He raises his gaze and meets Tony’s eyes and doesn’t stop touching him. 

“You know?” Tony says to him. “I think this is the first time you’ve actually acknowledged that out loud. We’ll call that progress, Parker. Or _Pākehā._ Same difference.” He smiles slightly, and to Peter’s great shock he reaches out to grasp Peter’s arm more firmly, like he wants to hold on. “Not that it matters, mind you, since this is all about to blow up anyways. Literally.”

Goosebumps go up Peter’s arm, spreading from Tony’s touch. It’s thrilling to be here, at their wedding, with the smell of roasted meat in the air and the whole island laughing and singing and dancing and eating along with them. It almost doesn’t matter that they are two outsider orphans with more years between them than Peter has even lived yet, or that Tony is behaving so strangely, wanting to skip out on the rest of their party.

Peter could be happy like this, with just one more moment to find his balance and to dispel the blaring sense of unease. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have one more moment.

Tony’s fingers thread through the hair at the nape of Peter’s neck as it stands on end, his other arm enveloping Peter’s shoulders. “Hold on, kid, it’s just a bad dream.”

And over Tony’s shoulder, Rangitoto explodes in the not-so-distant distance, a cloud of ash rushing terrifyingly quickly across the water to attend their wedding party.

Peter closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kāuta - cookhouse  
> muka - woven flax  
> moko - traditional tattoo  
> tohunga tā moko - expert tattoo artist  
> tohunga ahurewa - oracle  
> whakapapa - lineage  
> kirituhi - Māori tattooing done non-traditionally, generally for a white person  
> whētuki - concussive trauma or hit  
> wharenui - meeting house  
> tangata whenua - local people  
> atua - spirits  
> Pākehā - 'white person', but Peter thinks they're saying his name, 'Parker'  
> haka - traditional dance  
> marae - formal meeting courtyard


	3. Chapter 3

_In the beginning of this world, Ranginui, the sky father, and Papatūānuku, the earth mother, had many children from their eternal union at the horizon. This is known on every island that the sun touches. Rangi and Papa are the beings from which all other forms of life, both quick as the quick stream and slow as the silent stone, spring. It is why there is always a horizon, wherever eyes can see… there is no spark of life without the friction from the joining of two things, light and dark, order and chaos, sky and sea._

_The horizon is, however, a narrow place._

_Though Rangi and Papa loved each other greatly, their many sons were crowded between them and as their powers grew, those sons became capable of feats both great and terrible._

_One among them was Tū, the god with the angry face. He was the most wrathful at being trapped in the cramped space of the horizon, and he came to be the cold spirit of war. As an atua, he plagues the hearts of all beings except those who are truly innocent. Men call him many names, and always have, but his legend outlasts every lifetime because the truth of war is a simple one. It does not take hatred. It takes only hunger in the winter, and a many-faced serpent offering a sweet summer ahead, for a price. For this and other reasons, Tū is the soldier-god of war, and of hunting._

_Like Tū and yet not like Tū, there was also Tāwhiri. Although Tū sinned when he was convinced to kill the Sky Father and Earth Mother, Tāwhiri had more respect for divinity, and considered himself a god too, with allegiance to the Sky Father, whom he considered the All-Father. In return, Tāwhiri was given dominion over the storms, the thunder, the winds, even the fiercest squalling hurricanes. He fights to maintain control over this power, lest one of his many brother-rivals outshine him. He is significantly more powerful than even his warlike brother, and thus the storms will always rage, before man and after man, before war and after war._

_Tāne is the god of peace, beauty, and man. He so loved his war-like brother Tū that he took his great strength and separated the Sky Father and Earth Mother, in the ultimate betrayal. Although you may think this is wrong, and indeed many tragedies have henceforth occurred since the separation of two beings so intertwined that to be without the other is not unlike a death, Tāne would tell you that he does his feats of strength for the love of his siblings alone. So there begins the folly of man, the only animal who says one thing and does another._

_Because the god of man has made peace a twisted thing, a thing that blooms only briefly before the wolf of war eternally unthaws himself again, there is also a god of animal peace. Rongo, the god of peace_ **_after_ ** _war, and of fertility and all things that grow green and strong as they are cultivated, is strong but does not enjoy war as his brothers do. He, along with Haumia, his brother and the god of that which is wild and uncultivated and hidden, hid from the Great War. Haumia searched all the earth to find a place that not even his own arrow could land, put aside his bow, and knew that this spot was truly hidden._

_However, these two gods did not know that no thing, not men and not gods, can hide from death. The goddess of the Underworld, who can find all souls wherever they are, even in darkness, was a great beauty and more importantly a sharp mind. She sought out Rongo and Haumia, the two whom she had known and loved, for so long that the sunset bled from her hair until it was pale as a morning dawn. It is said that she alone knows how to speak to her brothers to calm each of them, even the one called Tāne who lies out of love and the one called Rongo whose instincts reject the lies men have made._

_These are the powerful children of the universe who took part in the Great War, and woke it from darkness._

_The first time, that is._

_***_

When Peter comes to, the world is white and there’s a repetitive, high-pitched noise right in Peter’s ear.

“Kid? Kid, are you-”

He opens his eyes to a world of ash, and it’s not what he’d thought. It’s only now that Peter realizes he’d been expecting to be away from this situation. In the split-second before the disaster hit, Peter had fully expected to either wake up saved—by Tony’s ingenuity and strength—or dead. _One or the other._

He’d believed it with every fiber of his being, as if he’d been in this situation before.

Now, it looks like they’re in this together.

Peter disentangles himself from his new husband, observing the way the ash has settled over literally every object and in every crevice. The only things spared are the uneven prints of Peter’s hands on Tony, and Tony’s hands on Peter, where their grips apparently saved each other from the worst of the volcanic cloud.

There’s that, and the damned bird shrieking its head off, over and over, on top of a nearby bush.

“Listen to me, hey. Are you in there?” Tony is saying, turning Peter’s head towards him, with a hand on Peter’s jaw. The man’s grasp is powdery, gritty even, against his skin. “We need to get these people moved.”

Slowly, as if hearing them from underwater, Peter parses that. “I… thought you said it didn’t matter.”

“I was wrong. I thought it’d be like in the movies, but we didn’t die, and I’m not gonna have you or any of these people suffer. I’m not gonna make you watch that. Help me gather the families.”

“No-”

“No?” Tony’s look is incredulous.

“The full moon is tonight,” Peter argues. “We have only hours before moonrise. You are the great builder. Construct something for the _wakas_ , to keep supplies safe from our people when they change to animals. Get everyone who is already accounted for onto them and make for the traders’ islands to the north-”

“But if someone is left behind, the CO2 is going to start cooling and sinking-”

“We’re far enough away to avoid Rūaumoko’s worst rage, right? The Volcano God is mighty but has a short reach when the sky is so clear.”

Tony stops. He looks like he’s struggling with something, and _Peter doesn’t have time for this._

“Right?” he presses.

Hatu, of all people, interrupts Tony’s hesitation. “There you are!” he exclaims. “We need to get people to the wakas, moonrise is almost upon us; it will go quicker if you all help. We’ll need supplies, but there’s no way to safeguard them from our animal spirits, so It will have to be a separate supply waka, roped behind the others. We’ll have to hope none of us is too hungry…”

Peter is glad someone is seeing things his way, though he’s briefly embarrassed that he’d been about to send Tony on an errand to invent a complicated safe-container when of course they can just pull one supply boat after the others. “I should have thought of that, good work.”

“Technically, you just did,” Tony mutters, but Peter ignores him.

“Who’s the biggest gossip in town?” he asks instead. “Someone who knows everyone?”

Hatu answers him immediately, “Ahorangi.”

“Get her. Have her stand at the boats and balance them according to the weight and compatibility of the animal forms. She should know what everyone will change to, even if they’re unconscious or addled by stress.”

Hatu nods. A warrior by trade, he’s exactly as good in a crisis as Peter would expect. “What will you do?”

“I’m going to stay and scout for stragglers. Even after the moon, I will be able to fly and see from overhead. Then I’ll meet you at the north islands.”

At this, Tony’s grip on Peter’s arm becomes bruising. “Like hell you will. The halides and sulfides alone will kill you. Not to mention if it acid rains. Peter, you can’t stay here.”

Peter shakes off Tony’s grasp. “We are far enough away. I told you, the Volcano God has a big fist, but a short arm.”

“I’ve lost you to Thanos once already! He’s just as big and ugly here as he is in the real world.”

Hatu looks torn, which doesn’t bode well for Peter’s argument. Unfortunately for him and Tony, Peter thinks, Peter is the chief. “You are right, Rūaumoko‘s rage should center on Rangitoto. But if the wind shifts? I don’t know, _Pākehā._ And the ash cloud will start to lower itself soon. The volcano’s breath is the breath of the earth. It will not long wish to be parted from it.”

“I _told you_ , it’s going to cool and then get trapped close to the ground-”

“I have to find May,” Peter insists. “I can do that best as a bird. Which reminds me, have Ahorangi direct the freshwater creatures together, and send them first to the next island over. They will have to wait there until the moon passes; we cannot move that much fresh water overnight for them to stay in. They should leave now-”

Tony interrupts even as Hatu clasps Peter’s hand and walks away to do what needs to be done. “Peter-”

“-And you should go with them,” he finishes. “Electric eels and ocean water don’t mix.”

_“-May isn’t here.”_

“What?” says Peter, dumbly. _She wasn’t at the wedding, but of course she’s here._ But even as he thinks it, Peter’s unsure. If May were on the island, why wouldn’t she have been at the wedding?

“May isn’t here. You’re not going to find her, and even if you somehow did, it wouldn’t really be her.”

Peter feels the panic welling up again, that same sense of something being _wrong_ , which is wrong in and of itself. The volcano already exploded. If there’s something _else_ coming, Peter doesn’t know what he’ll do. “How do you know? You’re supposed to be the oracle, but you always tell me that doesn’t mean you can’t be wrong. You were wrong about the eruption; you said you thought we’d die.”

“It’s hard to explain right now, but I need you to just trust me. May is fine. She’s just not here right now. Kid, we have to go help. The women need help loading supplies and the men need help rounding up kids and livestock.”

Peter, though, can’t stop himself from shaking his head vehemently, which causes ash to drop from his hair. He looks down at himself and the anxiety worsens, threatening to swallow him up. 

His wedding clothes are ruined with ash. It’s a terrible omen. “You can’t know. You act like you know, you act like you know everything! But even an oracle who can see far into the future only sees from his own eyes. You can’t know about every place on the island, you can’t know from May’s place, you can’t see from up high. Only the Red Sun God, and his father the Light, know all.”

Tony’s expression goes pinched, the sight of which ignites Peter’s own exasperation. “Trust me, my dad definitely didn’t know all, though he’d have liked to pretend,” he says. At the same moment, the ground shudders with the after-effects of the eruption. The sea and land will be angry for days, possibly.

The skin on Peter’s arms pebbles up as Tony grabs for him again as the ground quakes under their feet. He’s gentler about it than he had been before, but Peter is still nervous that his new spouse will try again to make him give up the search for May.

_Also, what? What does that mean, about Tony’s father-_

Instead of continuing to argue, Tony smooths his hands down Peter’s bare arms, brushing ash as he goes, the scrub of which prickles up all of Peter’s senses. He squints up at the sky for a moment before looking Peter in the eye. “Listen, if I tell you something, you have to promise to _just listen to me_.”

Peter doesn’t say anything, and will make no such promise, but he lets his wrists stay in Tony’s grasp. He’s far more occupied with struggling to breathe than he is with fighting off such a simple touch, especially after longing for such a touch for so many months.

“I _am_ the Red Sun God.”

 _Oh,_ Peter thinks. _That makes sense._

And he promptly passes out.

***

_Not all of the sky’s and the earth’s children participated in the Great War._

_There was also Urutengangana, the great light. He was the firstborn of them all, more like another father than a brother, and desired to be the brightest of all lights and the source of all inspiration. In reality, he became the source of all woes, because it is not true that what is light is kind and what is dark is evil. Sometimes there is pain in knowing, and sometimes we are blinded by our own brightness. Just as there is no light without shadow, there is no knowledge without misuse, and Urutengangana’s discoveries, as his light touched them, were also taken for use by Whiro, the dark spirit of the world who controls the many-faced serpent’s tongue. Desire gave way to war, as it tends to do, and Urutengangana—whose only instinctual desire was for greatness itself—had trouble deciding whose merchant he would be: Death’s or Life’s. Although he eventually sided with his brother Tāne, Death’s serpent whispered until the wind would bite cold at his heels for his misgivings. It spoke low so that the Storm God would not hear, and this wind would be beyond him._

_The net of betrayal drew tighter around Rangi and Papa’s children, so slowly that they did not know who hunted them, not even Tū, who was also a hunter._

_In this way, Urutengangana’s light descended down his line to the one who would inherit it, to the one who would make it not a weapon, but the light of a sun under which things can grow, not merely burn. In this way, Urutengangana was the father of Māui, the Sun God._

***

It’s the none-too-gentle rocking of the waka that wakes Peter, in darkness. It’s a smaller, double-hulled canoe from what he can make out, and Peter’s gut clenches with anxiety; he hasn’t been out on the water since Ben died. Not only has he not been allowed, but he’s also been plagued with a recurring fear of drowning, of not knowing which way the sun is, of the water closing in and curling him up in its dark embrace like heavy cloth.

Kinda like how he feels now.

“What the fuck- take me _back_! I have to find May!”

“No,” Tony says shortly, fiddling with the bullrush sail. “You passed out from breathing in too much carbon dioxide. The island needs time. Everyone was evacuated, and I carried you all the way to this fucking canoe, Peter, so now you’re gonna sit in it while I figure out how to wake us up.”

Peter scrambles up, finding his legs against the motion of the water, and tries to see how far from Motutapu they might be. He could still swim back, probably. He’s strong. He just has to be not afraid. He can talk himself up to it.

 _Come on, Peter. Come on. You can do this. You have to,_ he tells himself. Absently, as a distraction, he tells Tony aloud, “You were nicer before we were married, tohunga.”

A hand on his shoulder spins him around, and Peter catches sight of the other people on their vessel, most of them rowing just enough to steer, or watching the sail. Hatu and Ahorangi are among them, and both avert their eyes from the argument on display. “I was _nicer_ , kid, before you almost died on me. Again.”

 _Again?_ “You said yourself you foretold the eruption! Thanks for the head’s up on that, _by the way_. And you said you expected us to die then, and you seemed to accept it, so what’s the big, hairy deal? I only get to die if it’s how you want me to? May is _the only family I have left._ ”

One of the villagers whistles low, and Peter is reminded of his vows, of the offering up of his blood to Tony.

“Present company excluded,” Peter tacks on. He even looks to the members of the village to make sure they’re not making anyone uncomfortable. Now is not the time to seem like a weak chief with a misfired marriage. “Look, I’m not trying to fight with you I just need to know that she’s okay. Nothing you say makes sense anymore. I trust you, but…”

Tony lets go of him. “You trust me but you don’t trust me. Got it. Great.” He brushes more ash off himself, and Peter wants to scream at how unconcerned he’s acting.

“I _do_ trust you. But you’re not _saying_ anything, you’re not explaining, and I don’t _know_ what half of what you say means anyway! This is a nightmare, can’t you understand that?”

The canoe goes over a particularly swollen wave and Peter almost stumbles. He would have, were it not for the way he could feel it coming. Tony, for his part, goes down hard on a knee, arms flailing for balance, and Peter grabs onto him.

“Yeah, it’s not a party for me either, kid,” Tony informs him. “But what do you want me to tell you?”

Maybe it’s weak of him, but seeing Tony struggle softens Peter towards him. He manages to sit again, bringing Tony down with him; it’s safer than standing with this rough water. “Just tell me the truth. Help me understand what we do now, if everything is gone,” says Peter, as quiet and calm as he can.

“I have some practice at that,” Tony mutters, but it’s clearly not for Peter’s ears, so he waits. Finally, with a deep sigh, Tony takes his time lighting the wood-fired lantern. Peter would protest at the waste, since the full moon is letting off plenty of light to see by, but he doesn’t want to-

_The full moon._

Peter looks up at it, rapt. He cannot understand why they are not yet changed. He hasn’t ever looked at the moon when it has been _truly_ full, not with human eyes.

“I’m going to tell you a story, and hope that you understand,” Tony tells him, voice low.

It reminds him of many, many sunny days spent on his porch, when Tony was just this voice, only this and a shadow. It would be so easy, Peter knows, to settle into that voice and let it lull him into a feeling of security, to sleep even, with the rocking of the _waka._ It’s not the wedding night he’d imagined, no, but it would be good. It would be _so_ good, to be able to rest in that feeling, even as he knows—and Peter does know—that he’ll likely never sit on that porch again. 

“But May…” 

“If May was on that island, then she has been evacuated. Can you trust that? If you can’t trust me, can you trust the village, trust Hatu and Ahorangi’s work?”

Peter looks back up at the wonder of the moon, aware that there are many things he doesn’t know, which a wise man like Tony might. Once he looked forward to finding out why they are forced to change… now he needs to know why they aren’t, anymore. “Tell the story, then. But you will help me get back to my Aunt May, whatever it takes, husband.”

“Yes, I will,” Tony tells him, like it’s the last of his wedding vows.

And Peter listens as the story is told.

***

_Māui began his life as the yellow sun. He was cheerful and bright, and unburnt. His father was the brightest light, and his mother was human, so Māui had more fun than any being ever had. That which was for gods was for him, and so too were the delights of men._

_When his father saw that Māui had more life stretched out in front of him than any man or any god, and that Māui’s time would be the time of both the earth’s greatest loss and the earth’s greatest triumphs, he grew jealous. He called Māui not by the name he should have—he called him other things to diminish his light, so it would be dim compared to Urutengangana’s own._

_In this way, though Māui like his father desired the greatness of godhood, he turned more towards his mother, and he had increased sympathies for the plights of men. He reached for the earth, warming to it and desiring connection, and made fast friends with the God of the Shimmering Heat that fills hot, empty places from far away, making mirages that comfort the lost and alone._

_And Māui always desired more of everything, as he was accustomed to great wealth. He found one day that he desired more time with his mortal mother whom he loved, and more time with the Shimmering Heat god,_ _Ārohirohi, whom he called merely Rohi… so great was their friendship. Because he was the yellow sun, days passed as he did, so the only way to have more time was to move more slowly across the sky. This presented a great challenge for_ _Māui, whose natural brightness made for a quick, frenetic pace to his life. It was forever his curse to run ahead of the rest of the world._

_First, Māui tried to lasso himself, but he could not fashion a rope that was strong enough to hold him, perhaps because he did not really want to. Many times he tied a cloth around his own neck, but it always turned out to be silk instead, because secretly Māui cared very much what others thought of him, ever since his father called him wrongly out of spite._

_By the time Māui had finished trying to lasso himself, his mother had died in the way of mortals, and so too had his father, whose heel was bitten by the cold, which barked up his shin like a wolf at the door, until he grew mean and unsteady and his light went out altogether._

_Then, Māui thought to drink the good, burning water of men, which was not really water to begin with. It slowed down speech and movement, and made people think without thinking at all. It did some work to slow Māui’s ascent across the sky, and he felt strongly that he had succeeded, but it was a trick of the good water. The trick of it was that it was hard to stop drinking once begun, even for Māui. Many feared it would put out his light forever, like had happened to Māui’s father before him._

_Māui’s thirst first began to cure itself after he was lost in the desert for some time. In the desert, there was barely water—real water—to drink, let alone the burning, expensive good water. It helped to break him of the habit, and remind him of what he really labored for, which was chiefly the good regard of the Mirage God, his friend, Rohi, who found him in the shimmering heat of the desert, and saved Māui’s life once more._

_Finally, later when other options seemed exhausted, Māui called upon the Red-Fire Goddess, Mahuika. He asked her if there was a way to change his mind once and for all, so that he could be more like his friend, Rohi, and more like his father’s brother, Tāne, whom the father had revered and always compared Māui unfavorably to. Mahuika had great power, and she knew that men wanted her power for themselves. In fact, she was afraid to be captured lest her red-fire be stolen from her, and she did not trust Māui at all._

_‘I only want to protect those I love, and those whom they love too. Help me create a shield for them, a ring of fire around the world, and I will give up my quest for more time. I will not try to live with them forever; I will only try to live well with them while I can. I have learned, from losing my mother and my father; I do not want to lose my friends too.’_

_‘You are learned, but you don’t understand, if you still think you can protect everyone. You do not know loss as I do. But I can show you.’_

_And Mahuika, the Fire Goddess, entranced Māui’s mind with her flames. Anyone who has ever stared long into a flame knows the feeling, and the way thoughts trail you behind them like a supply canoe, instead of letting you steer with your own paddle. And the goddess bewitched the mind of Māui, so that he saw only his own incendiary end, and the ends of all his friends._

_It aged him terribly, and changed his mind fully to one of fear, like mortal men have. Māui abandoned his former pursuits, and cared only for that which might protect him from the future as it had been foretold._

_Māui’s labors brought the knowledge of fire, and other discoveries and inventions, to man. He was as great a hero as he had always been._

_But from that day on, the yellow sun was Red._

_***_

"So it's a curse," Peter murmurs, trying not to interrupt the cadence of Tony's storytelling. "But on the island, not on the people?"

"Well," Tony begins, in just the same tone that he always uses to correct Peter, "not on _all_ the people."

"Oh." Peter takes that in. _Ohhh._

"But wherever I call home, whatever island I stay with, the curse will follow. Wanda has- I mean, Mahuika wants me alone. She's created a special hell for me, here. And the water will always be cursed wherever I go, too. It will make me forget the truth of this place and want to stay in the dream… Pretty sure she borrowed that one straight from Tennyson."

Peter doesn't know who Tennyson—or Wanda—is, but he _is_ acutely aware that the other passengers on the waka, even Hatu and Ahorangi, are starting to look unhappy at sharing space with two cursed individuals. They’re talking amongst themselves, and many have stopped rowing, though to be fair it isn’t strictly necessary with the sail up.

In the end, a man who Peter knows vaguely as an island advisor, since Ben’s passing, is elected to come and speak to them. _Tahana,_ he recalls. _That is his name._

“These legends are not unknown to us, tohunga… though you tell them differently,” Tahana informs Tony, as the others look on restlessly. “Our stories are older than the oldest white man, and we’ve carried them here, over the water, from places where the water and the land are not separate, and rice grows. We carried them to the rice from places where there was no water, before that, except for a great river that flows strangely to the north. And before that, there were places where the jungle was so dense that it felt as though the rivers’ water was in the air, all the time. Through all this time, we have had the Sky Father and the Earth Mother… and their many children, whose names always change, have caused countless wars to be fought over what to call them and who was to reign supreme.”

“First of all,” Tony interrupts, counting on one finger, “lots of rivers flow north, not just the Nile. Secondly, _it’s a metaphor_ , I don’t actually think I’m a god and I’m not here to challenge your pantheon. And third,” he continues, rounding on Peter, “I don’t need a _lecture_ on human migration from your subconscious, of all things.”

Peter sputters. _I didn’t do anything._ The villagers in the waka with them grow more restless still.

“So you will not listen then?” Tahana clarifies, voice going hard. “You won’t listen to us, even though we sheltered you, and even though our own legend tells the tale of how to break the moon’s curse? It’s simple you know; Mahuika is merely jealous that the sun took a younger lover in the moon. It reminds her of her own lost love, Auahitūroa, the god of the great yellow stone that fell from the stars, the comet god who brings us visions of fire in the sky, and the origin of Mahuika’s red-fire. She punishes the sun and the moon, and all lovers, on Motutapu… until Auahitūroa is returned to her.”

“How?” Peter asks, despite himself. This is the answer he’s been wanting for an age. _Why. What am I for?_

Tahana turns to him. “Auahitūroa lies sleeping in the underworld, and Mahuika will not reclaim him until that which has made the god into a mortal is removed. Only then can they ascend back to the mount of the mighty _atua._ Until then, all lovers on the sacred island will suffer as they do, as Rangi and Papa also do, and be separated from the other half of their truest selves. Only in strange dreams under a full moon can they visit each other, and even then, two who belong will find themselves at odds. A bird will love a fish, as the sky loves the sea: impotently.”

Peter considers that, in relative silence. The waka crests several more waves as he does so; the rough water probably means they are approaching one of the northern islands where they should be able to find refuge. Potentially, he could be reunited with May by morning.

But if Tony comes with them, the curse will continue. Another volcano could erupt, if Mahuika’s rage is so great that she has taken over even the mind of the Volcano God, Rūaumoko, the one who—in his strange Northern language—Tony calls ‘Thanos’.

Peter won’t leave him. But he also can’t come to the new island. Peter has a duty to his people, for all that they have given him. Ben used to say it, all the time.

_With great power, comes great responsibility._

“We have to get off the canoe,” says Peter.

“Gee, what gave it away, Peter?” says Tony, tilting his head at the members of the village, Tahana and Hatu and Ahorangi among them, who have started to rise with unimpressed looks on their faces. “It may have taken three years, but your projections are finally getting hostile towards me. You ever wonder why the others are scattered to the winds? This is why. You get too upset, kid. And what, because I don’t believe some mega horseshit about us being soulmates?”

As per usual, lately, Tony’s diatribe gives Peter an aching head, peppered as it is with assertions he knows not the origin of, and a cavalier attitude besides. “I-” Peter begins, frowning. “I don’t know what you _want_ , husband. Everything is a joke to you; perhaps you really are the trickster, Māui, if you are trying to convince me that my life is a dream. You seem to care for nothing, not even me!”

Tony sways towards him and Hatu takes up an oar like it’s a weapon in response. But Tony only has eyes for Peter. “Your dream, your rules, right? I get it. I went along with the marriage thing, because hey, I’ve had crushes, and I knew they needed time up top to work the plan. Time dilation is a bitch, well. You’ve seen _Inception_ , you know. Or you _should_ know, anyway. As movies go, it’s not even ‘really old’, not even to you.”

The pain in Peter’s head worsens. “I, I don’t-”

“And this whole time,” Tony barrels on heedlessly, “I’ve been babying you. Everyone else is probably waiting for us on one of the other levels, do you get that? And I let you play house just so that your body wouldn’t panic, or god forbid, your mind. Just trying to keep you from going full scramble up top, Moons Over My Hammy-style. But you staunchly _refuse_ any version of reality where I’m _just not that into you_ , and I don’t know if that’s Wanda’s influence, if she’s just leaning in extra hard to that age-gap-related angst and it’s affecting you? Or maybe that’s just _you._ But either way, kid?”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up, sir-”

“You need to get over it. Right now. Before this ‘dream within a dream’ stuff fucks either of us up any worse than it already has. And don’t you _ever_ say again that I don’t care about you, got it?”

Peter reaches an arm out blindly, grabbing for Tony, for anything, to help him keep balance as his skull _screams_ at him that something is wrong. “My head hurts,” he says pitifully. “I don’t feel so good.”

“Yeah, well,” Tony replies flippantly, for all that he grasps Peter firmly back, steadying him. “It’s not the first time.” Through the blinding pain, Peter notices Tony glancing over Peter’s own shoulder. “And it’s about to get worse,” he adds.

“Wha-?”

And Peter’s consciousness takes a nosedive for the third time in as many hours, this time courtesy of an oar that gives him a hollow clunk to the back of the head.

(His last thought is: _We’ve got to stop meeting like this, Mr. Stark._ )

***

_Māui’s spouse was called Hina, or the moon. In some stories, they were related, but in any case, the moon was the one who could understand Māui and reflect some of his own light back to him. Like the god of the shimmering, heated air, Rohi, who was Māui’s other great love, it was through Hina that Māui saw his own warmth and light returned. So he forgot the words of his father who had cursed him and the machinations of Mahuika who made him red with doubt._

_Hina, however, had a dark side upon which light rarely shone, and it remained unknown even to the moon itself. Through this power, Hina had other instincts and senses that were neither apparent to the eye, nor easily understandable. While everyone saw the sun’s radiance except for the sun himself, only Māui knew the truth of the moon, and saw what lit it from within, aside from the light of his own regard. He knew that Hina was beautiful and good, and found as much power in the ability to change through the phases as Māui found in his own constancy. Where Māui had experience, strength, and a light that shone so brightly his chest could not contain it, Hina had mystery, potential, and a quiet glow of power._

_Even more auspiciously, both the sun and the moon hung in the sky, though they moved through its space in different times of life, with the sun being much older. This was a great blessing, to both be so powerful and on the same side, unlike Tū and Tāne, who were war and peace and bond-brothers besides. Unlike Tāwhiri and Tangaroa who were the hotly raging storm and the giant, frosty cold of the deep, mysterious ocean, respectively, and blood-brothers besides. Unlike the mistress of the underworld, with her red locks and redder ledger, who shamed herself so with her own darkness that she went underground to hide, changing her name, while Rongo and Haumia hid and wept. Unlike Auahitūroa, the comet, and Mahuika, the fire, who saw themselves and their own red-flames in one another, but could not meet, lest the earth be destroyed by the selfishness of their passion._

_The moon’s beauty and good fortune offended the tricky Ocean God, Tangaroa, just as the sun’s quest for happiness offended Mahuika._

_Whenever the moon was at its most radiant, the ocean would begin pulling on it, trying to drown it, and this is why the tide washes in high on the full moon._

_***_

Waking on his side, spitting salty water, Peter struggles to even sit up. His limbs are unbearably heavy, and his bottom half is covered in a scratchy, water-logged and blue-dyed fabric that somehow manages to be both clingy and stiff about his legs, weighing them down.

Conversely, Peter’s top is covered in thin material that sticks to him, uncomfortably wet, and aids the wind on the beach in chilling him to the bone, even as his chest expands with ragged breaths and coughs.

Sand is stuck to his cheek, and Peter rolls over into it as he pushes up onto one forearm and one hand, still trying to breathe.

“Welcome back to the twenty-first century, kid,” a voice drawls, but it’s not the voice Peter longs to hear. He looks up, getting to his knees, at a man with intensely salt-and-pepper streaked hair, and a cape. “If you want to help Stark, get up and get moving. You do _not_ want Maximoff getting a bead on us.”

The world spins and Peter closes his eyes briefly, before he’s able to open them again and fully take in the orange sky that sends his senses skittering. He can hear the ocean behind him, and it sounds angry. Ahead of him, up the hill and perched, white and shining, is the oddest-looking building Peter’s ever seen. It has a giant, angular symbol inside a circle, built into its side.

“Where am I?” he manages wetly.

The strange man’s mouth twists. He looks askance between Peter and the building. “Don’t tell me Stark didn’t manage to give you the uptake before you both died and kicked up and out? He had _one_ _job._ ” The man sighs. “You’re where all good billionaires build their doomsday bunkers… New Zealand. Avengers’ Compound? Am I ringing any bells here or is this dream getting a lot more nightmarish by the second?”

The man grabs for Peter without waiting for an answer and begins herding him down the beach, towards a copse of trees and a small outbuilding, though it has still been erected in that glistening white. Peter lets himself be pulled, thinking hard about his situation.

He can’t remember drowning, or how he washed up here, but it was night before, and now it’s day.

Peter’s sudden headache is gone, but he’s as confused as ever. “I’m dreaming?”

The man turns to him. “Oh, so you believe it when _I_ say it, but not Stark? I suppose I should be flattered.” And with that, Peter is pushed through a door.

In the building, there is a collection of small windows, but they don’t show the outside of the building, Peter knows. They don’t show the lush trees or the big white building that he just came in from seeing. They’re showing different rooms from different angles, mostly up higher than a man’s head, and in those rooms there are many strange items and pieces of furniture with odd shapes in a foreign style.

And in one of those little windows, is Tony. He’s stretched out on a chair that is also like a bed, a metal one, and a red line of light connects from the side of his head to the head of a younger-looking woman with long hair and a garment of dyed-red leather. Around them, in a circle, are a myriad of other people, all connected by an arcane power.

Peter is preoccupied for a moment, with concern. Tony is here too, in this strange place, and he looks to be in danger.

However, Peter’s attention is pulled away from the array of windows— _security surveillance,_ Peter’s mind supplies for him, in the space of a breath—by a second person, who sits despondently in the little hut, leaning back in his seat with a kingly air, looking bored.

Peter knows him. It’s the eel from his ritual bath dream, the one Tony had rid him of before he could be further molested by him. This is the man whom Tony named ‘Loki’.

“Hello, eel. What witchery are you doing to my husband and why should I not kill you?”

“That’s no way to address a _real_ god, pretender.”

_End Part I_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. :D
> 
> The next part will be out soon, and don't worry, we haven't seen the last of Motutapu Island, or its non-MCU inhabitants. It only gets crazier from here.


End file.
